The Deal

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” My voice cracks like a fucking egg. I feel sick that I even have to assure her of that.

  Panic floods her eyes. “What? Oh, honey, no. I didn’t think…”

  “Yes, you did,” I say quietly. “It’s okay. I’m not taking it personally. I know what it’s like to…” I swallow. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time here, because I need to get the hell out of this house before I do something I might regret, but I just need you to know something.”

  She uneasily lets go of the dishwasher door. “What is it?”

  “I…” Another deep gulp and then I get right to the point, because really, neither one of us wants to be having this conversation. “He did it to me and my mom, too, okay? He abused us, physically and verbally, for years.”

  Her lips part, but she doesn’t say a word.

  My heart squeezes as I force myself to keep going. “He’s not a good man. He’s dangerous, and violent, and…sick. He’s sick. You don’t have to tell me what he’s doing to you. Or hell, maybe I’m wrong and he’s not doing anything—but I think he is, because I see it in the way you act around him. I acted that way too. Every move I made, every word I said…everything I did was rooted in fear, because I was desperate for him not to beat the shit out of me again.”

  Her stricken look is all the confirmation I need.

  “Anyway.” I inhale deeply. “I’m not going to drag you out of here over my shoulder, or call the cops and tell them there’s domestic abuse going on in this house. It’s not my place, and I won’t interfere. But I need you to know a couple things. One—it’s not your fault. Don’t you ever blame yourself, because it’s all on him. You did nothing to invite his criticism and his verbal attacks, and you didn’t fail to meet his expectations because his expectations are fucking impossible to meet.” My chest seizes so hard my ribs ache. “And two, if you ever need anything, anything at all, I want you to call me, okay? If you need to talk, or if you want to leave him and need someone to help you pack or move or whatever, call me. Or if he…does something and you need help, for fuck’s sake, call me. Can you promise to do that?”

  Cindy looks stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. Her blue eyes are glassy, and she starts blinking fast, as if she’s trying to ward off tears.

  The kitchen becomes as silent as a funeral home. She just stares at me, blinking wildly, the fingers of one hand toying with her sleeve.

  After what feels like an eternity, she gives a shaky nod and whispers, “Thank you.”

  Heat blasts from the air vents when I slide into the driver’s seat. Hannah has started the engine and she’s already buckled up, as if she’s as desperate to get away from here as I am.

  I put the car in drive and speed away from the curb, needing to put distance between me and that brownstone. If I’m lucky enough to play for Boston one day, I plan on living as far away from Beacon Hill as possible.

  “So…that was kind of brutal,” Hannah remarks.

  I can’t stop the laugh that shudders out. “Kind of?”

  She sighs. “I was trying to be diplomatic.”

  “Don’t bother. That was a nightmare from start to finish.” My fingers curl around the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. “He hits her.”

  There’s a beat of silence, but when Hannah answers, it’s with regret and not surprise. “I thought that might be the case. Her sleeves rode up in the kitchen and I thought I saw some bruises on her wrists.”

  The revelation sends a fresh bolt of anger whipping through me. Damn it. A part of me was still hoping I might be wrong about Cindy.

  Silence settles between us as I head for the highway ramp. My hand rests on the gearshift, and Hannah covers it with hers. She strokes my knuckles, her gentle touch easing some of the pressure in my chest.

  “She was scared of me,” I mumble.

  This time, Hannah does sound surprised. “What are you talking about?”

  “When I was alone in the kitchen with Cindy, I took a step closer and she flinched. She flinched, like she was scared I might hurt her.” My throat clogs up. “I mean, I get it. My mom was jumpy, too. So was I. But…fuck. I can’t believe she thought I was capable of hurting her.”

  Sadness softens Hannah’s voice. “It’s probably not just you. If he’s abusing her, then she’s probably scared of anyone who comes near her. I was the same way for a while after the rape. Jumpy, nervous, suspicious of everyone. It was a long time before I was finally able to relax around strangers, and even now, there’s still things I won’t do. Like drink in public. Well, unless you’re there to play bodyguard.”

  I know that last line is an attempt to make me smile, but it doesn’t. I’m still preoccupied by Cindy’s reaction.

  In fact, I don’t feel like talking anymore. I just…can’t. Fortunately, Hannah doesn’t push me. I love that about her, how she never tries to fill silences with forced conversation.

  She asks if I’m okay with music, and when I nod, she plugs in her iPod and loads up a playlist that does make me smile. It’s the classic rock set I emailed her when we first met, though I notice she doesn’t start it from the first song. Because the first song happens to be my mother’s favorite, and I’m pretty sure that if I hear it right now, I’ll burst into tears.

  Which just goes to show that Hannah Wells is…amazing. She’s so fucking attuned to me, my moods, my pain. I’ve never been with anyone who can read me so well.

  An hour goes by. I know it’s an hour because that’s how long the playlist lasts, and when it ends, Hannah puts on a different mix, which makes me smile too because it consists of a whole lot of Rat Pack, Motown and Bruno Mars.

  I’m calm now. Well, calmer. Every time I feel like I’m relaxing, I remember Cindy’s fear-ridden eyes and the pressure squeezes my chest again. As uncertainties eddy in my gut, I force myself not to dwell on the one question that keeps pricking at my brain, but as I speed off the exit ramp and drive toward the two-lane road that will take us to Hastings, the question pops up again and this time I can’t bat it away.

  “What if I’m capable of it?”

  Hannah turns down the volume. “What?”

  “What if I’m capable of hurting someone?” I ask hoarsely. “What if I’m just like him?”

  She answers with absolute conviction. “You’re not.”

  Misery crawls up my spine. “I have his temper, I know I do. I wanted to strangle him tonight.” I press my lips together. “It took all my willpower not to throw him into a wall and beat him to death. But it wasn’t fucking worth it. He’s not worth it.”

  She reaches for my hand and laces her fingers through mine. “And that’s why you’re not like him. You have that willpower, and that means you don’t have his temper. Because he can’t control his. He lets the anger fuel him, drive him to hurt the people around him, people who are weaker than him.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “What would you do if I pissed you off right now?”

  I blink. “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s pretend we’re not in the car right now. We’re in my room, or your house, and I…I don’t know, tell you that I slept with someone else. No, I tell you that I’ve been sleeping with the entire hockey team since the second we met.”

  The thought makes my insides clench.

  “What would you do?” she prompts.

  I turn to her with a frown. “I’d end it and walk out the door.”

  “That’s it? You wouldn’t be tempted to hit me?”

  I recoil in horror. “Of course not. Jesus.”

  “Exactly.” Her palm moves gently over my cold knuckles. “Because you’re not like him. No matter how angry someone made you, you wouldn’t hit them.”

  “That’s not true. I’ve gotten into a brawl or two on the ice,” I admit. “And one time I punched a guy at Malone’s, but that’s ’cause he said some nasty shit about Logan’s mom and I couldn’t not throw down for my friend.”

  She sighs. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of violenc
e. Everyone is capable of it. I’m saying you wouldn’t hurt someone you love. At least not intentionally.”

  I pray to God she’s right. But when you inherited your DNA from a man who does hurt the people he loves, who the hell knows.

  My hands start to shake, and I know Hannah feels it because she squeezes my right hand to steady it. “Pull over,” she says.

  I frown again. We’re driving down a dark stretch of road, and even though there are no other cars in sight, I don’t like the idea of stopping in the middle of nowhere. “Why?”

  “Because I want to kiss you, and I can’t do that when your eyes are on the road.”

  An unwitting smile springs to my lips. Nobody has ever asked me to pull over before so they can kiss me, and although I’m exhausted and pissed off and sad and who knows what else, the thought of kissing Hannah right now sounds like pure fucking heaven.

  Without another word, I pull off onto the shoulder, move the gearshift to park, and flick the emergency blinkers.

  She slides closer and grasps my chin. Delicate fingertips stroke my stubble, and then she leans in and kisses me. Just the fleeting touch of her lips, before she pulls back and whispers, “You’re not like him. You will never be like him.” Her lips tickle my nose before kissing the tip of it. “You’re a good person.” She plants a tiny kiss on my cheek. “You’re honest and kind and compassionate.” She lightly bites my bottom lip. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a total dick sometimes, but it’s a tolerable kind of dickishness.”

  I can’t stop a grin.

  “You’re not like him,” she repeats, firmer this time. “The only thing you two have in common is that you’re both gifted hockey players. That’s it. You are not like him.”

  Jesus, I needed to hear that. Her words penetrate that terrified place in my heart, and as the pressure in my chest dissipates, I cup the back of her head and kiss her hard. My tongue slides into her mouth and I groan happily, because she tastes like cranberries and smells like cherries and I fucking love it. I want to kiss her all night, for the rest of my fucking life, but I haven’t forgotten where we are at the moment.

  I reluctantly break the kiss—just as her hand sneaks toward my crotch.

  “What are you doing?” I croak, then groan again when she rubs my aching cock over my trousers.

  “What does it feel like?”

  I grab her hand to still its movements. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we’re sitting in the car on the side of the road.”

  “No, really? I thought we were on an airplane on our way to Palm Springs.”

  I choke out a laugh, but it turns into a wheeze when the temptress beside me strokes me again. She squeezes the head of my cock, and my balls tighten, little zings of heat racing through me. Oh hell. This is so not the time, but I have to know if she’s as turned on as I am, and I can’t stop my hand from drifting to her knee. I caress the baby-soft skin of her thigh before slipping my hand under her dress.

  I cup her over her panties and moan when I feel the damp material against my palm. She’s wet. Really wet.

  Somehow I manage to yank my hand away. “We can’t do this.”

  “Why not?” An impish twinkle dances in her eyes, which doesn’t surprise me, because I’m quickly discovering that Hannah is adventurous as hell once she lets down her guard and trusts someone.

  And it still floors me that it’s me she trusts.

  “Anyone can drive by.” I pause meaningfully. “Including a police patrol.”

  “Then we better be fast.”

  Before I can blink, she unzips my pants and slides her hand inside my boxers. My eyes promptly roll to the top of my head.

  “Get in the backseat,” I burst out.

  Her eyes widen, then fill with delight. “Really?”

  “Hell, if we’re going to do this, we might as well do it right,” I answer with a sigh. “Go big or go home, remember?”

  It makes me laugh how quickly she dives into the backseat. Chuckling, I pop the glove box and grab the strip of condoms stashed there, then join her in the back.

  When she sees what I’m holding, her jaw drops. “Are those condoms? Okay, I think I might be mad about this, except I probably shouldn’t be because it’s very helpful right now. But…seriously? You keep condoms in your car?”

  I shrug. “Of course. What if I’m driving along one day and come across Kate Upton stranded on the side of the road?”

  Hannah snorts. “I see. Is that your type then? Busty blondes with curves to spare?”

  I cover her body with mine and prop my elbows on either side of her. “Naah, I prefer busty brunettes.” I bury my face in her neck and nuzzle her skin. “One in particular. Who, by the way, also has curves to spare.” My hands slide down to her waist. “And tiny hips.” I glide my palms underneath her and squeeze her round bottom. “And a grabbable ass.” I move one hand between her legs. “And the tightest pussy on the planet.”

  She shivers. “You have the dirtiest mouth.”

  “Yeah, but you still love me.”

  Her breath hitches. “Yeah. I do.” Her green eyes shine up at me. “I love you.”

  My heart damn near explodes as those three sweet words hang between us. Other girls have said that to me before, but this time it’s different. Because it’s Hannah saying it, and she’s not just any girl. And because I know that when she says she loves me, she actually means me—Garrett—and not Briar’s hockey star, or Mr. Popularity, or Phil Graham’s son. She loves me.

  It’s difficult to speak past the enormous lump in my throat. “I love you, too.” It’s the first time I’ve told a woman I love her, and it feels so damn right.

  Hannah smiles. Then she pulls my head down and kisses me, and suddenly we’re not talking anymore. I push her dress up and yank my trousers down. I don’t even take off her panties, I just shove the crotch aside, roll on a condom with one hand, and guide my cock to her opening.

  She moans the instant I enter her. And I wasn’t kidding about how tight she is. Her pussy clutches me like a vise and I see stars, so close to losing it I have to will the climax away.

  I’ve fucked girls in my car before.

  I’ve never made love to one.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I mumble, unable to take my eyes off her.

  I start to move, dying to go slow and make it last, but I’m painfully aware of our surroundings. A Good Samaritan—or worse, a cop—might spot the Jeep and think we need roadside assistance, and if they decide to approach us, they’ll get an eyeful of my bare ass, see my hips pumping and Hannah’s arms clutching my back.

  Besides, in this position, it’s hard to maneuver. All I can manage is fast, shallow strokes, but Hannah doesn’t seem to mind. She makes the sexiest noises as I move inside her, breathy sighs and shaky whimpers, and when I hit this one certain spot inside her, she moans so loudly I have to clench my ass cheeks to stop from coming. I can feel the orgasm hurtling toward me, but I want her to come, too. I want to hear her cry out and milk me dry as her pussy spasms around me.

  I reach between us and press my thumb on her clit, rubbing it gently. “Give it to me, baby,” I rasp in her ear. “Come for me. Let me feel you coming around my cock.”

  Her eyes squeeze shut, hips rising to meet my hurried thrusts, and then she cries out in pleasure, and I come so hard my vision wavers and my mind fragments into a million pieces.

  When the mind-shattering pleasure finally abates, I register what song is playing in the car.

  My eyes fly open. “Did you re-download One Direction?”

  Her mouth twitches. “No…”

  “Uh-huh. So why is “Story of my Life” playing?” I demand.

  She pauses, then lets out a big sigh. “Because I like One Direction. There. I said it.”

  “You’re lucky I love you,” I warn her. “Because I wouldn’t stand for it otherwise.”

  Hannah grins. “You’re lucky I love you. Because you’re a total asshole and there aren’t a lot of gir
ls who’d put up with it.”

  She’s probably right about the asshole thing.

  She’s definitely right about the lucky part.

  37

  Hannah

  “I don’t like this,” I declare. “I mean it, babe, my legs are starting to hurt. I told you, I’m not flexible.”

  Garrett’s laughter vibrates through my body. My naked body, I should add, because we’re in the middle of having sex. Which I just confessed to not liking.

  Maybe I am a mood killer.

  But you know what, I don’t care. I’m still vetoing this position. Garrett kneels in front of me, and my ankles are up on his shoulders. And maybe if he wasn’t a big strapping hockey player, my legs wouldn’t feel like they’re resting on top of the frickin’ Empire State building and be cramping the living hell out of me.

  Still laughing, Garrett leans forward and my muscles breathe a sigh of relief as I slide my legs down and hook them around his ass. Immediately, the angle changes, and a moan slips out of my mouth.

  “Better?” he says huskily.

  “Oh my God. Yes. Do that again.”

  “I have no idea what I did.”

  “You twisted your hips, like…ooohhh…yeah, like that.”

  Every time he fills me, my core clamps around his erection. Every time he retreats, I feel empty, achy, desperate. I’m addicted to this guy. To his kisses and his taste, to the feel of his short hair beneath my fingers, and the smooth sinew of his back when I dig my nails into it.

  His hips flex and his breathing quickens, and he thrusts harder, deeper, turning my vision into a white haze. Then he reaches to the place where we’re joined and rubs my clit, and off we go. He comes first, but keeps pumping inside me even as he trembles in release. His climax sets me off and I tremble even harder, biting my lip to stop from crying out so I don’t alert his roommates to the delicious sensations coursing through my body right now.

  Afterward, he rolls on his back and I lie on top of him, scaling his body like a monkey as I plant little kisses on his face and neck.